Nightshift horrors

It is 4am and I am not asleep. In fact, I am being paid to moderate comments on a selection of forums for a job that I have just been made redundant from. It all seems rather futile...but I love a crisis! And this latest money-based woe has caused me to hunt around for employment with a vengeance.

It has also (seemingly) forced me to watch 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding' on 4OD, google 'Country House Cooking Competition' and click on each link and to eat a bowl of something called 'Nougat Pillows', which turned out not to be as delicious and dreamy as the name implies.

Ricky and I spent a very enjoyable day in the Gagosian gallery and Wellcome Trust - I watched a video installation until I got dizzy and looked at a poor man's eye which had been blown of and recorded forever in posterity by Damien Hirst.

We then had a very enjoyable Vietnamese dinner with the FP crew and Ruth, where I had too much wine then had to come home and eat coffee granules out of a jar to sober up before work.

And job hunt round 2. Less hurrah, more hurroo.

I hope that as I write this you are all having a lovely sleep!

xxx

The wanderer returns...

Well, my pledge to write everyday lasted for January alone it seems, for Feb has been quite the busy month. I think it could be summed up by saying the some sort of mini-breakdown has happened. But it's hard to explain. The important thing is that I am back! And resolved to write this blog each and every day.

Some changes have occured recently - not too dramatic - but changes none the less. Job, career (ha ha), friends and family...all my time has been taken up. As to these changes however, I cannot really go into them yet. But I will dear reader, one day.

This week has been taken up with job issues mostly, and it seems that I may shortly need to find a new one. Mostly I have been excited about seeing Brighton friends at some point for Billy's birthday and the long awaited end of Clash so that Ricky will finally stop working 7 days a week and will have 2 weeks off to hang out with me! This is the most exciting thing to happen for some time.

Aother development for those interested is a little matter of reality tv. ITV, 4pm, week beginning the 8th March. I will say no more.

Have a fabbo friday!

On Love

Today is Valentine's Day, and Ricky is taking me for dinner tonight. I am very excited by this prospect, as I am rather hungry. He has also bought me a poetry book and a card, in which he tells me that I am his 'first and last munch of biscuits' a truly romantic sentiment I feel.

Anyway, I am a lucky girl. I know this. Last night, being a Saturday, there were a lot of anti- Valentines nights happening - clubs, pubs and parties abounded like any other Saturday in London town. But we were off to little Jessie's birthday - the theme of which was 'ANDROGYNY.' A daunting prospect, as this is the sort of theme that actually requires you to have a think about what to wear (and also maybe a quick look at a dictionary)...Anyone who knows Ricky will know that he is rather an expert on these matters, an authority, if you will on gender studies and the like, he decided, in his infinite wisdom to go as a seahorse. Seahorses can and do change gender from m-f and back throughout their lives, also the men can carry pregnancies. This involved Ricky buying a purple sequined dress from a market stall (ox st, size 10) and then making a strange seahorse headdress and snout out of a pizza box and egg carton. Needless to say, he looked very good.

I had even more unkempt hair than usual - sticking out at least two foot from either side in different directions. I teemed this vagabond look with a tuxedo shirt and black jacket, bow tie and black trousers. The vampy red lips and black 'tasche were an afterthought, but most pleasing to behold. As you can tell, I didn't put much thought into it, I just thought about what was handy and shoved it on. Nice.

There were lots of lovely yooof at the party, and I felt as though I were 104 years old, clutching at my mug of wine and shuffling from chair to chair. Even at one point, after loosing the nice bottle of Bordeaux that we bought, turning down another glass of wine from a friendly stranger after scrutinising the bottle and declaring that I 'don't care for Merlot, and would try to stick to the Burgundy.' What a total ponce.

That statement was short-lived however, and I believe I came across that same smiling stranger a few hours later when foraging for contraband booze, coming across an dusty bottle of Drambuie and shrieking 'Ah! Loverly boozy potions!' in their face. I did, of course, drink everything in my path, resulting in a possibly unwise move to the Dalston Jazz Bar (always ace, always full) where I jived around til 3am then realised that I had to work at 9am.

And that is what I am doing right now. My brain is soggy and hurty, and I have just looked in the mirror to examine some of the stuff that is being held hostage by my hair. At the moment most of it seem unidentifiable. Hopefully just some sticky Drambuie or the remnants of an individual cheese souffle. Don't ask.

I will tell you tomorrow where we dined tonight and any other news. I am excited as it is Glee night and Ruthie will be here. I am also going to help Karen decorate her flat - possibly not as good as Glee, but still good.

Fancy dress - Do's and Don'ts:

DO:

Dress up. A bit. Go on! Make a little effort.

Bring plenty of delicious booze that you can clutch in your own bag all night (tramps handbag), chewing gum and possibly a Curly Wurly for the long journey home.

Keep re-applying your fake facial hair at regular intervals. Your persistence will pay off.

DON'T:

Eat only one small lightweight souffle before going to a party. It is made of air and will not line your tummy. Bleurgh.

Offer to pay a taxi driver in songs performed by the kerbside. They don't accept this as legal tender.

Drink Drambuie. EVER.

Have a lovely Sunday!

xxx

¿Por qué mi bolso tan grande?

Keen readers will have noticed that I have been off for 5 days in Spain seeing my lady Sandra and having a great time with Bea and Anna, gadding around Madrid, buying tat and drinking too much in general.

I am back on the blog wagon now, firmly ensconced, and I have many things to discuss (lucky, lucky you). Firstly; you can still SMOKE in Spain. I am an ignorant soul and assumed it was pretty much a no-no everywhere in Europe now. Not so, as I was soon to discover. Literally everyone smokes and they smoke anywhere and everywhere too. Bloody foreigners... bloody lucky foreigners. No, but really, it was pretty stinky. Didn't stop all of us joining in though, gross as it is. After holding hands with Bea all the way to Madrid on the plane, we managed to separate for a few hours before climbing into our double blow up bed on the floor in Sandra's room. And what a bed it was! Arguably, much more comfy than the one I sleep on at home, and certainly more comfy than the floor that Rick and I have been sharing for 6 months, complete with deceased mouse underneath, a bit like the princess and the pea.

Bea rolls and fidgets a lot in her sleep - but I got my own back by stealing all the covers and possibly trying to grope her (I will call it a 'hug' though, and no one can prove otherwise)... Anna and Sandra shared Sandra's bed, resulting in lots of hilarity where they had to tread on our bed in order to get out of the door to the loo in the night, resulting in bouncy castle like hilarity. How we laughed. Hmmm.

Madrid was, in all honesty, absolutely fantastic. It was surprisingly clean and fragrant (despite the smoking) and even though the exchange rate of pound:euro is shit, you can still eat and drink out a lot more cheaply than in London. On our first proper night Sandra took us to no less than 6 bars, each very different, among them; a traditional tapas bar/diner, with big 70's neon signs displaying various unidentifiable foods; a jazzy, smoky wine bar, a Gothic discotheque and Spanish 'pub' which doesn't get lively until about 3am, and doesn't close until late into the next morning. At this point it was at least 5am, and Anna Bea and I decided to stage a mini protest outside waiting for Sandra to come out. Anna had the hiccups pretty badly by this point and Bea and I had somehow got to discussing the merits of a delicious redhead. I, in my usual way, had decided that I was fluent in Spanish and decided to get chatting with locals. The shame. Am sure I said 'Guapo' a lot a 'Donde esta beeeeer??' a fair amount too.

Our days rolled on in this manner, namely staying out until dawn and waking at 1pm as a result. Most decadent and enjoyable, though now I must have some sort of detox as I have had nothing but wine, beer and cheese for several days now. Finding something to eat in Spain if you don't eat meat can be rather tricky. Anna managed to consume almost exclusively only Jamon and a disgusting, REPULSIVE drink made from 'tiger nuts' in Spanish - Chufa. This drink is very popular in Valencia in particular and is marketed as 'Chufi'. A tiger nut is not a nut, but a foul, fibrous tuber - described on their home website the most popular 'horchata' or vegetable milk drink. Anna was extremely pleased when she found this, and now I fear she will be buying it by the crate from abroad to satisfy her perverse lust of nutty milk juice.

Things that I have learned about Madrid:

The Prado is closed on a Monday. Bugger.

You can't eat dinner until 10pm, and even then you can't eat dinner unless Jamon is a feature (see Museo de Jamon)

People are very friendly, even if you are ranting at them in a made up hybrid of Italian, French and Spanish

Things that I have learned about myself:

I cannot actually speak Spanish

I cannot get onto a plane again

I have extremely high standards when it comes to using public convieniences


Tips for the future:

Don't talk about Franco/Fascist dictatorships at birthday parties

Go on more holidays with Anna and Bea as they don't mind that talking about my pathological fear of public toilets

AVOID CHUFI.

Lovely to be back,

Thanks for reading xxx

I don't normally beg for assistance, I rely on my own eyes to see, but right now they make no sense to me...

I am in a state of confusion. A strange feeling of helplessness has descended, leaving me flailing and flapping around, a bit like a tortoise who has foolishly rolled onto its back. Shit analogies aside, I really feel at a loose end at the moment. I think money is a factor. The fact that I don't have any is hardly a revelation, but it is still a shit feeling. I think I mentioned yesterday that whilst I was extracting a splinter from Rick's foot I daydreamed about a possible change in career? Last night as I was back at the helm of the foot, digging around with some blunt tweezers and a sterilised needle I though perhaps I could have been a surgeon, had I just tried a bit harder. I have a firm hand and a good eye for detail. Or maybe a professional splinter remover? I'm sure there is such a thing, or if not, I could be a pioneer. Maybe I'll get awards.

I also rather wish I'd trained as a hairdresser. The fact that I cut my own birds nest of hair is really all the training I have had, and so far my technique consists of me squinting into a mirror with the kitchen scissors and cutting into the great bush of tangles that I have somehow ended up with on my head. Qualification enough I think you'll agree! I am also good a bowl-cut fringes, and I have been know to add subtle layers to Ricks hair when I cut it, though I don't tell him that. Of all the jobs I could be doing, I am not sure how it ended up here. I think its because I can am paid to do something I care little about, that an untrained monkey could also do if offered some sort of delicious banana incentive. And it gives me the means to write all of the things I wish I could get paid for, but ultimately no one reads.

What an up-beat thought for the day! In other news, I have been trying to lure P+T to the neighbourhood. I have lined up two places for them to look at...I am excited. I have also written to both Clair and Chas, who are both off half-way around the world next week for a few months. I will miss them keenly.

Tomorrow is the day I go to Madrid... I am scared. I don't like flying, and I have a terrible fear that I won't fit into the aeroplane seats. This has not happened before, thank god, but I still entertain the possibility. I also fear that one of the stewards will offer me some sort of extender belt (not needed just yet) like they do for the obese on American airlines. I am now not sure if my dislike for air travel is to do with being in the air or my fat arse. A combination of both maybe? Either way, I hate to fly, I hate airports and I'm a miserable, worrying bastard.

We are only allowed hand luggage and I have observed the rules on what to bring religiously. I have collected tiny 50ml bottles for my toiletries and have put everything into clear plastic bags. This includes my socks, pants, tees and dresses. Obviously you don't have to do that, but I like to. More to do with the my obsessive compulsive disorder than anything else, but I like to think that the airport security staff are quietly impressed.

Apart from folding and bagging my possessions, I still need to give myself the regulation haircut that will make me look either more mental or less mental (it's a gamble) and check-in online. This will be hilarious, as because of the OCD, I need to check each detail, in turn, something like 600 times. Rather time consuming, and actually makes me feel less reassured than I was, but if I don't do it it will be my fault if the plane drops from the sky. Nice.

I guess writing the blog will be difficult in Spain, but I will try. Now off to eat more arctic roll, attack the birds nest and plunge the clogged up sink.

I will just leave you with one thought; if you could do any profession, what would it be?

So long my doves, my dears,

C x

As I was levering a splinter that had burrowed its way into Ricky's foot this morn, my mind began to wander a bit. Could I, maybe, have become a doctor? Yes, I have no maths or science qualifications at all and blood makes me squeamish, but it does seem rather rewarding. And well paid. At the moment I am not well paid. This, unfortunately, affects many aspects of life. I can't be equal with friends or my boyfriend, I can't afford to help my sister out much when she needs it, and I can only pledge to a handful of charities rather than the 10 or 12 that really feel strongly about.

This doesn't mean that I don't know how fortunate I am just to have a job (albeit a very shit one) and to be earning at all. I know that I'm lucky. Who else gets to moderate chat rooms and forums full of comments posted by the mentally ill and sexually depraved? Ah, lucky, lucky me. Quite apart from all of the amazing stuff that I get to learn each day, like, new swearwords, a novel story about vomiting perhaps, and someones conspiracy theory that Jordan is secretly the head of MI5, I also get to spend a lot of time reading and writing. Things that I do genuinely enjoy. This is how come I can blog to you each day...Nice.

Conspiracy theories aside, the websites that I work on do deal with some very important issues. For example, is Kerry Katona the UK's worst mum? Shoulder pads - yes or no? Should read headed people and the obese be sterilised? Also current affairs; why does Gordon Brown have that funny eye? Is David Cameron hot, or does his face look like melted cheese? Peter Andre for PM? These are just a handful of the issues buzzing around my head each day. Food for thought, I think you'll agree.

Speaking of professions, I had a rather uncomfortable night, wracked with dreams that I was taking part in a beauty pageant. This, as most of you will agree, is a most unlikely scenario. In the dream I was the only one would had no makeup on, and very disturbingly, when I looked down at my legs I saw that they were carpeted with coarse black hair. Not what my legs look like in reality, by the way, but not too far off either... in the dream, I had to sing as my special talent, but each time I opened my mouth nothing would come out, save a tiny croak. I persevered for a while, croaking away, until I was booed off stage. This sums up my life quite well I recon. What a nice subconscious I've got. Still, it could have been worse. I might have woken up in a pool of wee!

One last thing before I get back to my job in the virtual world, Dalai Lama: Hot or Not? A life of abstinence means he's taken really good care of himself. I would.

Have a lovely day xxx

Fear of the Scare ball and birthday tales a-plenty!

Am I faltering already? I am only in the second week and already I have become slack. Soggy and slack like foul old toast. Oh well, I am resolved now - the blog is my source of great pleasure for me and I will be writing it everyday. Even if no one reads it! The last few days have been lovely, exciting and stressful in equal measure. Being in Cambridge has lots of good points; parents, Helen, Pippa, evenings with the lovelies in the pub. The Avon lady calling round with my mum's assorted goodies which means that I get my delivery of shower gels and deodorants to see me through. It also has its bad points, including but not limited to; the Grand Arcade, the C1 bus, the tossers milling in and out of Elizabeth Arden and Ted Baker, all of the secrets I have that echo and bounce off of the streets. Especially the area directly surrounding the Kings St Run... but the less said about that the better.

I have also been on nights - which is a weird scenario indeed. I become strange and dark-eyed and start to really enjoy watching BBC Parliament channel at 4.30am. I also become highly sensitive to the 'Scare ball' (the sun) and going outside in general, unless it is to check for intruders (it is easy to get a little paranoid on nights) or to stare out of my window to spy on urban foxes. By the time the scare ball rose on my last shift it was Friday, 6.30am and I handed in my last piece of work for the week. I prompt slept til 3pm and awoke to find my pillow sodden with dribble and my hair standing on end, creating the effect of someone who has undergone a severe electric shock. I wasn't too disturbed however, as this is a normal look for me.

On Friday pm I headed to Mill Road's Geldart pub for the gorgeous Rosie O'D's birthday celebrations. I had one pint and was totally pissed so I bribed the delicious Andrea for a lift home in her wagon. What a lovely girlie she is. On Saturday I finally headed back to the FP and to my glorious flat, which I had been missing terribly. P and T came round and we headed to Marylebone for Chish 'n Fips with Clair Eskandary to celebrate her 29th year. God, I am so greedy for the fips. Tom and I went for the classic holy trilogy: Haddock, chips and mushies. YUM. Whilst Pippa and Rick (who sat on a slightly annexed table - a kiddies table if you will) and feasted upon foul scampy nuggets. It was a rather delightful picture though, I must say.

This morning we had eggs and watched the best programme on TV (Pippa was already a big fan) 'Take me out'. Tom, most understandably, was rather skeptical about it. Which is fair enough. We headed to Mare Street for Chas' birthday and parted ways with P and T, who had a hot date with a £900 chair. How times have changed. Chas look amazing and IS amazing. I was very happy to be able to give her the present that she gave me 10 years ago on my 18th when she was travelling in Oz - the famous 'Nobody knows I'm a lesbian' t-shirt. Tis a goodun indeed.
Twas a lovely avo, and on the way home Ricky and I went Mo'sons and bought a deliciously old school dinner of giant Yorkshire puds and arctic roll.

The cardboard Bavaria has been holding up well - though Rick's legs hang quite far over the end. Still - no dead mouse underfoot seems to be a Price worth paying.

Now, it has gone midnight, I have just finished work, and I am thinking of the week ahead. Ruth for dinner with Glee goodness, Madrid on Thursday! Hurrah indeed.

Things I have learned this week:

• finding tiny bottles for self-miniaturising one's toiletries is no mean feat.


• feet get very cold when they hang over the bed


• I am greedy for cuisine of the 1970's.

Goodnight all!